Pandora's Pictures
by GuinevereBlak
Summary: Firmly set in Leroux's book. Chapter 4 of 4 definitely M rated. Led through the mirror by her Angel, and unmasking a man, Christine works to convince him to trust her. Left alone for hours at a stretch, but only sporadically, how do you spend that time? Plot your escape, certainly... is that all? Perhaps there's a way to pass your time in the library... COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

It had been three days since the world ended, for me.

He'd taken me from my dressing room, and via dusty, cold secret passages by way of foot, horse, and boat, brought me to a hidden house; perfectly normal in all appearances, except for the occasional hidden doors and rooms throughout, and the fact that from the shore of the underground lake it was impossible to find the house.

He'd confessed his love for me here, in the parlor of this odd, secret house... the one I stood in now, alone. He wept, he cursed himself, he begged forgiveness while I stood stunned, and then demanded my liberty with strength I did not know I had... but after offering me that freedom, he sang to me, and all was forgotten except that voice which had been my friend, my inspiration, my comfort... and I slept.

I woke in a strange room, read the note left on the chest of drawers there, and in a panic I ran around the room, searching for a way out, an answer, an explanation... I found none.

He returned, bringing gifts, some of which I still had not opened. He made me a lunch, which I ate sullenly, and then he made good on an offer to show me around the house...

... and the drawing room...

...and his music...

...and as he played, I tore away the mask he wore...

I sighed, and sucked my lower lip in, trying not to cry. The memory... not just his face, but the horrible rage behind it. The blood under my nails, forced there when he took my hands and dug my nails into his terrible dead flesh.

And the way he collapsed, releasing me to crawl, himself, on the floor, sobbing and weeping in a heartbreaking fashion. He crawled back to his bedroom, and left me alone... it was hours before I could approach him and lie.

Lie to him as sweetly as the snake lied to Eve. I took a deep breath and held it, tears gathering in my eyes as I remembered promising him that I shivered was because I was thinking of the splendor of his genius. With the mask in place again, but with tiny rivulets of blood seeping down from inside, he fell at my feet, swearing his devotion and adoration for this great untrue gift. With words of love in his dead mouth, he kissed the hem of my dress and didn't see that I had closed my eyes at his touch.

For the last three days I lied to him minute by minute, not expressing in word, action, gesture, or expression the deep fear and revulsion I felt in his presence, or out of it.

Yet in that time, something else had taken hold; pity. It was not sympathy, or care, but it was not horror. It was kinder, and prompted a curious desire to understand the man; how had he come to be like this? What was his life like, down here? Had he always been here? And how had he come to present himself to me invisibly as the Angel of Music?

My breath caught at that, and I had to wipe my overflowing eyes. Yes, my Angel of Music, a link to my devoted Papa and a lifeline back to a happier time in my life. For three months, he'd given my back that lifeline to my Papa, and I was grateful to him for that, in a way.

And he had made my a star, a leading lady. He'd created my voice, really; I followed his instructions to the letter, as he demanded, and my voice had changed so completely it was impossible to imagine it had ever been otherwise. I was the toast of Paris, thanks to him.

Thanks to the masked madman who loved my; the undeniable genius who created this world and shut my in it. The murderer who haunted the opera.

With a groan, I sank onto the sofa and put my head in my hands. The flowers that covered every inch of unoccupied space in the room were beginning to wilt; I imagined I knew how they felt. I was bored, and amazed that I had the capacity to be so, here. I suppose terror isn't an emotion that can be supported without respite, and it was clear to me that he was trying his best to avoid inspiring it again in me.

It had been three days since I arrived, and he was gone for supplies. He had predicted it would be most of the day before he returned, and I'd been alone for hours. The fire under the mantle burned cheerfully, and his gifts remained in my room; those I'd opened showed a thoughtful care as to my wants; simple books, watercolors, knitting, embroidery, music, and sweets.

After several minutes resting so, I sniffed and dried my eyes and face. It did no good to snivel, and although it felt good to allow my loving facade towards him crumble, it was not productive to wallow in my fate... whatever that might be.

I rose, and wandered around the house aimlessly, like a ghost myself. Presently I found myself in a library-like chamber, and I trailed my fingertips along the spines of the books. Perhaps there was something here to entertain me; I felt uneasy indulging in the gifts he brought me. I didn't want to commit to any unspoken obligation based on their use. No, I wanted more than anything to be away from here, from him, and without a reason to return.

My sense of wonder rose as I examined the titles. There were at least a dozen languages represented; could he read speak all of them? Some were in alphabets I didn't understand, some with letters that looked more like stick figures or long, looping lines. Of those I could read, there were hundreds of topics; anatomy, physics, poetry, biographies, gardening, research, art, architecture (so many of those!), reference... there seemed to be no end to his interests.

Idly, I picked a book of fairy tales and began to leaf through it, when a scrap of paper fluttered down from it.

I stooped to pick it up and return it to the book, when the contents of the paper caught my eye.

It was a drawing, almost life-like in it's accuracy. Pencil-lead, nothing more complicated or colorful. A woman, with a stern expression and somber clothing. There was a word dropped haphazardly on the edge of the paper: "Giry," in a child's scrawl and in red ink.

I blinked... the box-keeper in the opera above was named Giry, and her daughter was a ballerina there. But the box-keeper was a old woman, bent and gnarled... with a temper, it was said. I peered more closely at the picture... it could be her, but... young.

Had he drawn this? His skills knew no bounds, certainly, and he was unarguably a genius... did he know Madame Giry? I recalled a rumor I had heard, but paid no mind to at the time; that the box-keeper delivered notes from the Opera Ghost, and paid special care to his box, Box 5.

Dear God... he did know her, and she him, and he'd drawn this picture of her, perhaps years ago, from life? In the picture she stood tall, with what seemed like an slightly arrogant tilt to her head; along with the stern expression, she seemed most formidable.

I looked again at the handwriting, and shivered violently, aghast. A child's writing... had be been down here since childhood? Trapped alone, below the earth, in a grave waiting to happen, without sunshine or fresh air or family or friend except Madam Giry? What a hellish kind of life for a child... a little boy...

I shivered again, mentally picturing that life for a boy, a boy with the face of a corpse, always so cold...

I frowned as a thought occurred, and left the library to find my room where the note from him still rested. I compared them, and shook my head. The handwriting was the same; he could have drawn this picture today, or years ago; his script was simply underdeveloped and careless. Another odd detail in a decidedly demented, and sad, life.

I returned to the library, intent on returning the picture and finding other entertainment. As I picked up the book, I found there were more pictures inside... so I looked.

It was incredible... like a window to the past, familiar faces, but young; Lachenel, the stable master... but dressed as a groom. The old managers, Debienne and Poligny, dressed so sharply and with confidant, successful expressions I could not ever remember seeing on them. Dear God, a slender, vivacious Carlotta, practically in bloom. Robust Piangi, looking healthier than I had ever seen him. Others, I hardly recognized; someone who wore traditional ratcatcher clothes, and some who looked like stagehands, and some I didn't recognize at all.

Most of the papers had a word or two scrawled on them, all in that horribly familiar handwriting; mostly names, but sometimes a note - "Lech," was written in red on what looked like a young stagehand that I almost thought I recognized from backstage. "Idiots," was written on a picture of Debienne and Poligny together. I had to press my lips together to keep from smiling, and wondered what he thought of the new managers.

Towards the end of the fairytale book, I found more pictures, but these were of buildings and outdoor settings. Some where very foreign and exotic-looking,; these were frustrating because the information scribbled on them seemed to be in that location's language, and I couldn't read it. Some scenes were desert, some jungle. Temples, palaces, ruins...

Feeling dazed, I tucked all the pictures back into the book, realizing that if he were to check he would surely know I'd seen them; there was no way I could get them back to their original locations. Still, I slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and pensively went to my room.

It horrified me to think of a little boy down here, all alone; I found now that it troubled me to think of a grown man in these circumstances as well. Dear God, he was hideously ugly, he carried with him a smell that made me think of death, and he was clearly not in his right mind... but what made him that way? It seemed from the pictures he'd been down here for years... years! With a mask, he couldn't get about in society and without it... I shuddered again.

He'd been kind to me; he'd tried to be kind. He'd trained my voice, comforted me when I doubted my abilities. He'd given me my father back, in a way. I'd never done anything for him...

... except tear off his mask, I realized with a rush of shame, feeling sick at the memory of that hideous monstrosity. Tear away his dignity, leaving him crawling and sobbing on the floor.

Confused by my thoughts, I paced in my room until I heard the door open. He was back. I took several deep breaths (_As he taught you to do..._the traitorous thought whispered to me) and pinched some life back into my cheeks. I ran fingers through my hair and straightened my clothes, pasting as life-like a smile onto my lips as I could and stepped forth to face the monster.

He was in the drawing room, warming his bare hands at the fire but when he heard me, he pulled his gloves back on. Thank God, his mask was in place. Whatever parcels he might have collected on his errands were put away. I saw him try to smile, hesitant and careful. I swallowed.

"Good afternoon, Erik."

"Good afternoon, Christine."

An awkward pause.

"Did..."

"Are you..."

We spoke and stopped at the same time; what an impossible situation!

He gestured to me, offering me the right of first comment; I noticed now how gracefully his body moved, and the thought disturbed me. I tried to hide it, noticing as I did so that the flowers in the room had been changed now; there were new arrangements, and they were fresh.

"I trust your errands went well?"

"Oh, yes." that beautiful voice, warm and thick, like hot chocolate; I recalled now how he made me my favorite drink every morning, without ever being asked. I tried to shake the memory away. "Simple matters, really. You are looking well, Christine. Beautiful."

A compliment; he made a point of complimenting me at every turn, even before I came here.

"Thank you, Erik." I used his name again, and watched him smile when I did. Could it be that no one else ever used it? Never to hear your name on another's lips seemed so... lonely. So desperately lonely.

We stood there, watching each other across the drawing room. That mask was a reminder of what was underneath it, now. I couldn't let him see my revulsion at the memory, I kept my smile in place... but the memory stung me anyway.

Finally, I said "Are you hungry? I could make..."

"No, thank you." he said, genuinely grateful just for the offer. I saw so clearly now that he was desperate; for contact, for connection, for company. I felt horrible about myself, a girl-child who lied to such a sad man... but I knew I was lying still, and that I was afraid of him. I wanted to get out of here, away from him; it was awful, but true.

After a few more endless moments watching each other, I gestured. "Will you... that is, would you sit with me and tell me what you did today?"

He seemed startled by this; although I'd tried to appear unafraid and unaffected by his actions and words, I knew I had not been kind. It was hard to tell behind the mask, but it seemed my question was unexpected.

"Yes. Erik... yes." and he moved to take a seat but waited for me to place myself in a chair before he sat; even in these mundane movements, he moved as if to music. How odd, to see it now.

He gently cleared his throat, and that beautiful voice rolled out. "Erik had business in the opera house. He collected supplies; food, newspapers, other items."

He usually spoke of himself in the third person, like that... was it because that was the only way he ever heard his own name? More likely it was further evidence of his instability. I could smell him, now, that acrid, medicinal aroma layered with dust and something else; it reminded me of my father's final sickness.

Did he not know how to have a conversation? I waited for more, but it seemed the well had dried up. "Erik," and again that impression of pleasure behind the mask when I used his name "Will you forgive my curiosity about how you live here? It is... most unusual. I have had time to think on it. How do you ... manage?"

I had to be careful; my curiosity had been my downfall already, and he'd screamed that he would never let me leave now, because of it.

He watched me closely, then nodded almost to himself. "Erik has had sufficient time to make preparations. There are a few whom he will ... interact... with, to get what he cannot for himself." he gestured fluidly to his mask "Some things are made... problematic, otherwise."

I frowned with feigned sympathy and nodded. "Of course." I paused and licked my lips. "You have had sufficient time." I repeated. "You have been here... for a while?"

He nodded slowly, watching me. "Yes."

"How long?"

A long pause, and I was getting nervous that I had gone too far when he finally answered. "Years."

Years. Years underground, hiding, alone. He had drawn the pictures from life; he's seen all of these opera people come and go, age... without ever being seen by them. The word "Lonely" was losing its meaning.

"Erik... have you always worn a mask?"

The longest silence yet, and then he rose smoothly and crossed to the door. I fought my instinct to shrink back into the chair when he passed by me, but he didn't pause or even seem to know I was there. At the door, he stopped.

"Yes. Always." and then he left. I heard him go into the music room, but it wasn't until much, much later that I heard any music.

He terrified me; I trembled just to be in the same room with him, but hid it. His face... the memory made me feel sick to my stomach, and I had to push it away. He kidnapped me, and I felt justified in hating him. The pity was there, too... but now there was a new emotion; regret. Once upon a time, he had to be a child; a child with that "face", behind a mask. Always.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning we breakfasted... that is, I ate while he watched; clearly his mask would interfere with any consumption of food or drink and he refused to remove it, for which I was monumentally grateful...and afterwards, we moved to the music room for a voice lesson. He was still my teacher and for a few, precious moments during the lesson, with my eyes closed, I could almost believe in the Angel of Music again.

He finished the last few notes and slowly closed the keyboard cover. He rose (and again I could see a musical grace in his movements) and paused staring at the closed cover before he turned to me. "Erik must go out for an hour or so today."

I was a little surprised, but nodded.

He hesitated, searching. "Would you... consider? An outing?"

I froze, unsure of what I was hearing. An outing? Out of here? The answer to all my prayers! "Yes!" I said with great excitement, then tried to calm myself. "Yes, of course!"

I thought I saw him smile, and now that I had considered that he was once a boy, the almost-expression looked almost-boyish. "So eager..." he murmured. "You would go out with Erik?"

I satisfied us both by nodding, my mind racing on how to best take advantage of this opportunity. There had to be a way to signal for help, to somehow get away from this insane, disgusting creature. (_Wicked, cruel, ungrateful girl..._ whispered my thoughts, and I was suddenly ashamed, and angry that I couldn't take refuge in my revulsion for Erik.)

He bowed formally, which also surprised and... amused? "Erik will make it so." he spoke as if taking a solemn vow, and then with a nod farewell, he took up his coat and hat and left the house. I heard the key turn in the lock.

I sighed. Locked in again. Well. There was an outing to possibly look forward to, and I had plans to make.

I resolved to write a letter to Raoul and tell him what had happened to me, why I had disappeared. I would tell him where I was and beg him to come for me, and look for an opportunity to leave it somewhere above. I could only hope that he would get this note, and believe it.

I composed the letter mentally; I didn't dare write anything, lest Erik... lest HE find it. I would write it just before we left this horrible place.

Although, I had to admit to myself, it wasn't ... horrible. It was quite tidy and neat, he kept most of it clean (the music room was a man-mess that was best left with the door shut) and there were no drafts, dampness, or darkness here. Except in his bedroom... I shuddered again and decided to find something to do.

I found myself again the library room, leafing through the pictures I had found. With a sigh, I put them back and slid the book away.

Wandering around the room, I drew and returned several books; some were in a language, or even an alphabet, I could not read, some were beyond my intellectual grasp, and some were just boring. My eye was caught by the well-used spine of a book on architecture. Something he read, frequently? With a shrug, I pulled it form the shelf and started to leaf through it.

A wad of loose papers was immediately apparent and it was with an eagerness I didn't want to admit that I took them to look through.

The first one sent a bolt of shock through me, causing me to shudder and clench the paper in my fingers.

Me.

I was staring at myself, aged 19, a year ago. I knew it, because that ridiculous red scribble in the margin read "Age 19." I knew my mouth hung open, but without care for that and with trembling fingers, I looked at the next picture.

Me. At vocal practice. Next picture.

Me. In rehearsal. "Angel."

Me. A costume fitting.

Me. Another rehearsal. "Requires training."

Rehearsal. Vocal practice. At lunch in the opera; "Friends?" On the stairs. My face; "Beautiful." Three-quarters view. Turning to look behind me. Talking with others. Hiding behind a fan. Angry; "At cruelty." Smiling. Another, smiling. More, smiling. Here... sobbing.

The papers slipped to the table from my fingers as I discovered myself more and more. That was an awful costume; I always thought so at the time, and that hairstyle... oh God, why?

The last picture was of me looking out from the page, smiling with warm eyes and a welcoming expression... the scribble on the page read "Age 20, before." All the child's writing was in red ink. This year; I was 20 now.

"Before..." Before what?

I dropped into the seat and stared at the pictures littering the table, stunned.

From the beginning? From my earliest time at the opera, he'd... seen me? How long before... but I knew the answer. He'd been my Angel for 3 months before he brought me down here, terrifying me in the process and showing me a truth no one could bear.

The top-most few pictures littering the table showed me in my dressing room from an angle I had trouble placing, until I remember the dizzying trip through the mirror. Some of these pictures showed me from behind the mirror; seated at my dressing table, standing in my robe, entering the room...

Dear God... he'd watched me for more than a year before he'd spoken to me. I looked around the room, wondering how many more books he'd hidden pictures in... how many more books held the secrets of other girls he'd watched... taught...brought here? No. No, the legend of the Opera Ghost would surely have included other girls he'd kidnapped. It was said (by ballerinas) that he'd killed other people, even women... but I suddenly wondered if he would. Kill a woman, that is. He'd been violent to and with me, but ... considering his desperation and horrifying sorrow, I wondered who would not be moved to such acts if driven there; it was an act of desperate passion. Nonsense! He was a murdering monster...

I shook myself, and started to examine the pictures again, one by one, seeing new details captured here that I myself had not seen, or had forgotten as unimportant.

But they were important to him. They were tucked away safe in this book that he used well. He'd drawn me... dozens of times. Some of the pages had more than one drawing, and there were... I counted feverishly. 53 pages. I went back and counted more slowly. 53 pages with... oh God... 208 drawings of some kind... all of me.

I saw here that he'd captured me happy, most of the time. When I thought back on my life in the last year, I could only remember being secretly devastated; Papa was dead, and I was alone. I missed him so much; even now, my heart clenched thinking of him. I recalled visiting his grave only... a week ago?

The Angel of Music; a fairytale I embraced too strongly, because it meant Papa, and happy times. But I had believed in it so strongly that I never for a moment suspected that the man's voice, beautiful and unearthly though it was, was exactly and only that; a man's voice. I had convinced myself I was hearing an angel, maybe even hoped it was actually Papa come to teach me. Who does that?

With a sigh, I gathered the papers. Papa was gone, and I was trapped in the house of a man... no Angel, a man... who'd watched me for the last year, and more. I stuffed the pictures back in their book, and was about to place it back on the shelf when I noticed another two pages, loose, in the back of the book.

I paused for just a moment; I can admit it. Perhaps even Pandora has her limits... but apparently I don't, because I drew the pages out of the volume.

With nervous fingers, I unfolded them.

Papa.

Papa and I were walking through a meadow. The picture showed him from behind, holding my hand; my tiny hand. I couldn't be more than 6. I remembered...

_Tell me, Christine... of your father?_

_You know my father, Angel, don't you? From Heaven?_

_Of course... but I want to know what you remember of him._

_I remember everything, Angel. I love him so much... oh, I miss him... _

_Shhhh... no tears, dear one. Tell me of a happy time._

_After Mama died there were fewer happy times, Angel. But at least Papa and Mama are together, waiting for me._

_Tell me, Christine._

_We were walking. It seems like we were always walking, after Mama...it was sunset, almost, and Papa said we would stop soon. He carried the pack and his case. We were in a grassy field and I looked up at him... he looked just like an Angel. Just like you, I think. He was so wonderful, so handsome. I wanted to marry him, one day. _She laughed. _Of course, I know you can't marry your Papa but I was a little girl then._

_Of course you were. _

_I love him so much, Angel. It hurts..._

_I know, my dearest. But you are strong, and getting stronger, and your voice... it comforts him in Heaven, sweet one._

_Thank you, Angel. That makes me feel better._

I blinked, and the memory dropped away. Dear God...I'd told him that. In hindsight, it seemed ridiculous... he had used so many dropped and cast-off comments and memories to build his facade as the Angel of Music. He'd watched me...listened to me? For more than a year? Before he stepped into his role as the Angel of Music. Oh God.

Absently, I moved the first page behind the second, not really looking at the new image for moment. I felt adrift in memories.

It was the same picture from a different perspective.

The father and daughter walked through the same field. I saw them now from the front, walking towards the viewer. The little-girl-that-was stared up at her Papa in adoration, and he strode forth with determination, ready to make a place for his girl in this world, no matter what obstacles might come.

But his face was fully, blackly, completely, covered in a mask.

Oh God.

How long had he been gone?

I shoved the papers into the book, the book onto the shelf, and myself out of the room just minutes before I heard the key in the door. I made sure I was in my room and remained there for several minutes before I exited. Calm, assured, open and understanding. That was my role.

When I thought I could carry the role, I left my room to see him.

Our evening was smoother than previously. I didn't ask inane questions about how he spent his day; I had a better idea. We sat by the fire. There was some talk about food but... it turns out neither of us was hungry.

We sat there; I was deep in thought and I didn't realize until much later that he spent the time just... looking at me. As if he couldn't believe I was there; come to that, I couldn't believe it either.

Finally, I looked at him to find him so still, motionless, watching me. "Erik." I paused again; this was stepping close to the edge of our personal relationship and the great lie he'd told me, the rotten, stinking cornerstone of this whole twisted affair. "Why? Why did you pretend to be the Angel of Music for me?"

He sighed, which surprised me; it seemed to be from both relief and sorrow. "Erik heard your talent, Christine." The way he said my name, even when he didn't seem to make the effort, was tender and careful, as if the name were valuable. "Erik could hear that you had the potential to be ... anything. Everything. He wanted to train you, teach you. He knew that you would never accept a masked man as a teacher; you are too good a girl for that."

I looked down and swallowed thickly; I did not feel Good. He continued while I stared at my hands in my lap. "...and Erik knew he could never show you... his face." his rich voice was just a pained whisper. "So Erik lied."

"I trusted you." My voice was as much a whisper.

"Erik knows. He is... sorry." I had the idea from the way he said it that apologies were unfamiliar to him.

There was a long silence.

"How long?"

Another silence, before he asked "How long... what?"

"How long... did you watch me, before you came to me behind the walls as my Angel?"

The silence this time was deafening, endless...

"One year, six months, 9 days and 22 hours."

Oh God.

Finally, he spoke. "Christine..." again, such care in his voice. "...Erik takes full responsibility for this. He tried to be only your teacher. It is Erik's own weakness that..." a long pause "We find ourselves here. Erik would readily stop his heart if it would... change things."

The new emotions I had felt swelled inside me and I looked at him. I really looked; that sad man sitting there, alone, without hope or recourse. He knew I would never love him, and he'd loved me for so long... How long had he been alone, before he found me? Numbly, I asked him.

"Erik was one of the architects who built this place, Christine. Erik built this house, and his passages and hallways into the Opera, and then disappeared into them."

I stared at him for a moment, then looked away. The Opera was started in 1861, and opened in 1875, the same year Raoul and I parted in Perros-Guirec. My father died shortly afterwards and I entered the Conservatory. He'd been living under the Opera, in the dark and alone, for five years... or as many as 20?

The rest of the evening passed in silence.

**Author's Note - Thank you for your kind reviews and words. I had not expected to be so honored, and it is genuinely motivating to hear from you!**


	3. Chapter 3

He hadn't left the house in four days, and hadn't mentioned an outing, either. I wanted so badly to ask him if we were still going, but I was afraid of raising either his rage or his suspicions. If he thought for a moment I was going to try to get word to Raoul, or anyone... I couldn't imagine his reaction; I didn't want to.

"Christine." he spoke from the chair he favored. It was after our morning music lesson and the day stretched ahead bleakly.

I fixed a smile on my face and looked up brightly. "Yes, Erik?"

He loved the way I said his name, and my ongoing charade of gentle affection seemed to be succeeding. He seemed more relaxed, and less on guard around me.

"Erik must collect his salary today, and there are some things we need. Is there... is there anything you would particularly like your Erik to bring you?"

I blinked, and my mind raced furiously. "Erik, is there no chance I might go with you?" This was a huge risk, but the words formed and slipped out before I could consider them well; it was my fondest wish, at this point, to get out of this house.

His yellow eyes, deep in the mask, narrowed and I caught my breath. Would he explode at me? Curse and rave?

"No, Christine." his beautiful voice was almost kind as he shattered my hopes. "You will stay here, safe, so that Erik will not worry. And when Erik returns, you will be ready to leave. Erik will take you on a carriage ride in the Bois, as he promised. Erik always keeps his promises, Christine."

I gasped. He would take me on an outing when he returned! It was the answer to my prayers, after all, and I would be ready with a note to leave somewhere, anywhere, as long as Raoul would find it.

"Oh, Erik, thank you!" I gushed, but it was unfeigned joy. "I have been so looking forward to an outing."

He was still watching me, but less suspiciously. "Erik knows that his Christine misses the sun and the breeze. It will be night when we go; Erik cannot be out during the day, but there will be a breeze and the stars will be out for Erik's Christine."

As excited as I was, I was worried about how he referred to me as 'his'. Still, I made it clear that I was very happy with him. "Thank you, Erik, thank you!"

"Does Christine have anything she wishes her Erik to bring her? Books, paints, embroidery things... sweets?"

"Just a chance to leave this house, Erik." I said fervently.

He nodded and said fondly "You shall have it. In fact, Erik would like very much to give Christine the option of boat rides, or walks along the shores of this lake."

My heart raced; was my act that good? Was he going to give me a measure of freedom? Oh, even to roam these dank cellars alone would be bliss!

"Christine would like that very much, Erik." I whispered.

"Then Christine will have that freedom." he promised somberly, rising. "Erik will go now and take care of these annoying, mundane details and when he returns, his Christine will smile to see him...?"

I forced myself to smile brightly at him, as he came towards me. The smell of herbal remedies, dust, and something else that pinched the nose came with him; it was an awful combination, but I forced my eyes to shine for him.

He knelt in front of me, studying my face, and then motioned with his gloved hand; it was an abortive movement, as if he wanted to touch my hand but forced himself to stop. He hadn't put a finger on me since that night... and I was filled with shame at the memory... since the night I'd unmasked him. The night when this all started to go horribly, horribly wrong.

Freedom. He was offering me a kind of freedom and I wanted... I needed... to make sure he followed through on his promise. I forced myself to touch his gloved fingers with my own bare ones.

He exhaled, a startled gasp, and his eyes flew back to mine, surprised. "Christine... touches her Erik. With her hand, her beautiful, tiny hand, she touches his..." the wonder in his stunning voice was humbling.

Using his name to refer to himself, so at least he'd hear it occasionally. Five years or more underground, alone; there were prison sentences that were more humane. Starved for contact, for touch, for affection... The man was, truly, pitiful. A genius driven mad by reaction to his hideous face. Surely, kindness and sympathy for him was the only Christian thing to do.

I squeezed his fingers lightly through the gloves. "Come back soon, Erik." I bid him, and brought tears to his eyes. Wordlessly he nodded and rose, taking up his cape and hat, and left the house. I held my breath, and heard the click of lock.

I stood up quickly and began to rummage around. I needed paper and a pen and a quiet place to compose a note to be left for Raoul. I didn't dare take paper from his music room; he was very careful about things here, even if it did look haphazard; he would surely notice if I'd been in there.

I found myself in the little library room, searching through the desk drawer to find a scrap of paper and although I couldn't find a pen and ink, I did find a pencil. I immediately started to write a note to Raoul, composed a hundred times in my head.

It was short; I finished and folded it up, tucking it into my corset where I was reasonably sure Erik would never find it. I put the pencil and remaining paper away, and sat back. I knew the wait would feel eons long, and I was determined not to let my nerves or anxiety foul my plans.

Finally, I stood and looked for a book to keep myself occupied. A slim volume of poetry looked promising, and I pulled it out to read. Loose papers that were tucked in beside it fell to the floor, and I picked them up with a sense of deja vu; they were drawings.

These were different from the others I'd found; they included color, for one thing. Soft pastel colors gently shaded the figures on the page. The figures of Erik and I.

These drawings were not taken from life; Erik and I had never stood together in my dressing room, or walked down the street together, or stood together on the roof of the Opera. We had sat together in the drawing room of this house, and at the table here, but I didn't think he'd drawn these recently.

One particularly poignant picture showed us at the mirror in my dressing room; I stood on my side with my hand pressed to the glass, and Erik stood on the other, his hand against mine, with the mirror between us.

Here I was on stage at the opera, clearly singing a leading role; I had to search to find Erik, but he was seated in Box 5, visible when you knew where to look. He was applauding me.

Here, he held my hand...

In this one, he kissed my fingers while I smiled, laughing...

Him offering me a rose, like the ones I'd found left for me before I joined his prison sentence... and me accepting it with kind affection from his hands.

And here, he touched my cheek with gloved hands.

He rested his hand on my shoulder, standing behind me while I smiled, as if for a portrait.

We sat together in an opera box, touching our fingers together.

In all of them, he wore his mask.

None of these pages had any childish, scribbled writing in the margins.

Regretfully, I put the pictures back on the shelf along with the book; I wasn't in the mood for poetry now. I went back to the drawing room and sat down in my previous spot. After a moment, I lifted the hand I'd touched him with.

No sane man expects a girl he kidnaps to accept the kidnapping. No sane man kidnaps a girl, period. No sane man keeps the girl locked up in a secret house.

I shouldn't have taken his mask. It was wrong of me, and cruel. I never dreamed that he was deformed under it; I just wanted to see the man who'd taken me.

I'd refused to question the Voice I heard in my dressing room; a man's voice that sounded like it should belong to an Angel. I was a fully-grown woman who was happier believing in stories and myths than questioning suspicious disembodied voices. I was Ridiculous.

After at least five years of crushing loneliness, he brought me here for what he'd said would be five days, wherein I could learn more about him. He loved me, tragically, and had a goal that in five days I would learn enough to feel safe in coming to see him. To keep him company. To assuage some of this loneliness...

... And I tore off his mask and his dignity, screamed and cowered.

Now he was moved to tears of joy when I but squeezed his fingers. The sound of his name on my lips made him beam like a little boy on Christmas.

In the pictures he drew, his fantasy seemed to... ordinary. Normal. Eating at the dinner table, walking down the street, touching the person you ... love.

None of that was normal for him. What a monumentally pathetic life, and I had done nothing, not a single thing, to help or heal; if anything, I'd made it worse.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but this time they were not for my situation and out of my sense of desperation; they were for him. I cried for Erik.


	4. Chapter 4

After the carriage ride, it seemed everything changed for me... for us. My captor was far more generous; I was allowed to talk by myself around the shore of the lake and even take a boat ride in the little boat in which he'd brought me here. He would watch from the door of the house, unless I bid him come with me. We had lessons every morning, and in the evening he would play selections from a vast repertoire and I would join him, singing. He offered to take me on another carriage ride, and I rewarded him with another touch of my hand.

I had dropped my note, but had no idea if it reached Raoul. I knew I would try again if the opportunity presented itself.

"Christine, Erik is going out for errands. Would you like him to bring you anything?"

I looked up, smiling for him. I had to grudgingly admit, he was courteous to a fault, exceedingly polite, and always, always put me and my welfare and wants ahead of himself. Given what must have been a horrific past, and my own cruel behavior towards him, it was an impressive attitude. If I weren't kidnapped and being held prisoner, it would be an ideal domestic relationship.

"No, thank you, Erik. Unless I might come with you...?"

I saw him waiver, and my heart hammered in my chest. Was he going to let me come? Would I have a chance to escape?

"Not on this trip, Christine... but... Erik did want to ask you..." he trailed off uncomfortably and I hid my disappointment. "Christine... would you... consider... allowing Erik to escort you to the masked ball in the opera next week?" The last part was spoken very fast, so fast I almost didn't understand it.

I know my jaw dropped; I stared at him open mouthed. The ball? In public, with people around? Surely, I could escape him then, regain my freedom! "Yes, Erik, yes! That would be wonderful, I very much would like to go with you!"

Erik's yellow eyes glowed with joy. "Erik will make arrangements for it, then. Christine has made Erik very happy." He crossed to stand beside me and I felt his gloved hand touch my hair; I held still. The smell of sour medicine floated around him. I let him touch me; it was the first time since I unmasked him that he reached out to me and made contact. I heard him sigh with pleasure at it. "Thank you, Christine."

"Thank you, Erik." I responded. He moved past me to the door, and I heard the lock click when he left the house.

I remained where I was for a few moments, feeling the weight of his hand on my hair. I confessed it to myself; I was genuinely sad for him. It was as if a beloved old dog, arthritic and flatulent, was dragging himself in a foul-smelling cloud to my lap to lay his poor, toothless head. His was an ultimately unhappy life and if my hopes were realized, it would be made more unhappy by my escape.

Finally, I rose with a heavy heart and went to the library to prepare another note; I would beg Raoul to meet me at the Ball. That done, I  
occupied myself with some small housekeeping details, and I tried my hand again with the watercolors he brought. The pictures he'd drawn, and which I had found, sparked in me a curiosity. I didn't have an ounce of his talent, but watercolors are very forgiving. I had yet to show him any of these childish works but I knew he would rave over them if I did.

With a sigh, I cleaned up my work and wandered through the house again. It had become easier to live here, to live with him. We had our routines, and he was giving me more freedom. I desperately wanted to return to Mama Valerius, and Raoul, and my work above but... with no outburst like the one sparked by my unmasking him (and I had to admit that outburst was at least half my fault), it was becoming... normal... to live here.

I found myself in the library again, trailing my fingers along the book spines. I'd read a number of these by now, discovering Erik's hand-drawn pictures in a few. I'd have to ask for more books if he didn't let me go... it scared me to have that thought, to entertain the notion that I might not be able to get away and might be here... forever.

A number of these books were in languages, and even alphabets, I couldn't read. The words seemed to be made up of stick-figures, or looping, rolling script. I pulled a book with the latter from the shelf and took it over to a chair, dropping into it and pulling the book on my lap. Maybe I'd have to ask him to teach me to read this...

I flipped the book open, and frowned. I felt my cheeks heat, and I know my eyes widened as I stared.

This was an illustrated book.

In vibrant colors, deep, rich jewel tones, it showed men and women... it showed ... they were... I couldn't wrap words around it.

They were... fornicating. Gymnastically, impossibly, enthusiastically... fornicating.

The book slid from my nerveless fingers, and I grabbed at it to keep it from falling to the floor. The jarring shook loose papers tucked into the book, some to the floor but most to the edge of the pages, revealing their existence.

My eyes, still trying to make sense of the illustrations (even the ballerinas would have trouble with these moves...), drifted to the pictures that now littered the floor.

Oh God.

He was holding me, embracing me, and I him. His ungloved hands cupped my face and rested just above my bosom, the thin, spidery fingers playing along my collarbone.

In this one, he kissed my neck with his arms around my waist while I smiled and held his head against me.

The scrawl in the margin read "No." in red ink.

I felt numb as I pulled the rest of the loose pages from the book and opened them to see...

Me, in my under-things, in his arms...

Him, working his long fingers under the neckline of my gown, "NO." written in the margin. My expression looked... inexpressibly hungry.

A series of small close ups of his distorted, thin lips parting around my nipple, his tongue worming out to lick and tease...

Me, posed on bed sheets, wearing only a blindfold, smiling, and "STOP." in the margin.

Some pictures used the bright, vibrant colors of the book, others the muted pastels he had used previously, and some were the first stark gray shades of a pencil. All of the writing was in red.

Him, with his mouth on my breasts, kissing and licking. "WRONG!"

Him, between my legs, impossibly kissing me in the most private of spots. The scribble read "MONSTER"

The page behind was dedicated to close-ups of his attentions there and... I shut my eyes, but not before the red-ink scribble registered as "NO NO NO NO NO..."

My face was aflame, and I knew I should close this book and hide the pictures, if not burn them, I couldn't seem to stop revealing the next, and the one after that...

Him behind me as we lay on our sides, nude but with his mask in place, holding my bare breasts while we were joined. "DEVIL," in letters so sharp and jagged the paper ripped under them.

Me, kneeling in front of him, putting my mouth on him, taking him in my mouth... "STOP! FIEND!"

Detailed sketches of my tongue on him, while his hand held the sides of my head...

He pressed me against a wall here in this house, the wallpaper design and furnishings clear in every detail, as I surrendered to his attentions while suspended around his whip-thin frame. "STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP"

Both of us with our mouths on each other, our heads in each other's laps, my mouth bulging and with a look of distracted ecstasy on my face. "DEMON."

Here, he took me in the music room on the piano, his shirt and pants open but still hiding his body while there was nothing hidden about mine. "UGLY! MONSTER!"

In some of the pictures his body was revealed, and in some of those pictures his body was scarred; burns, cuts, lash marks, all healed, but what a hellish tale they told of suffering. In some, his body was perfectly smooth and well-formed... attractive. I wondered, dazed, which body was the truth.

In an opera box, in the shadows, just a suggestion of hips and hands, while the light from the front of the box suggested a performance on stage. "HIDEOUS CREATURE!" repeated over and over along the edges.

Him behind me as I knelt on all fours, him holding my hips; my face is contorted with pleasure. "MONSTER MONSTER MONSTER!" ripping the paper with force of the writing.

A view of myself, flat on the bed and looking up with such love and pleasure, a satisfied, stroked kitten; his scarred arms were just visible, holding himself above me as we rocked together. "NEVER NEVER NEVER"

An inversion of the previous picture, I straddle him as he lays flat; his view is of my intimate thatch of curls, my body, my breasts; my face is hidden tipped up to the bed's canopy as I ride him. "NO!", the pen tearing through the paper.

The last picture... we are both nude, and I straddle him, facing him; I am impaled by him and he holds me to him, and we stare at each other with intensely erotic expressions... and this is the only picture in which he does not wear the mask. There is no chastising comment in the margin.

More horrible than anything else in this picture were the tears streaming down his distorted, demented face.

At last, I manage to shake myself free of my horrified fascination and scoop up the pictures, stuffing them back into the book and jamming the book back onto the shelf before running for the door and to my room.

I locked myself in and paced, wringing my hands. Finally I poured water in the basin and splashed my face with shaking hands, spattering the carpet with droplets. I dropped to sit on the floor with them, bringing my knees up to my chest, curled protectively around myself. I found myself rocking slightly.

Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God ... the chant wouldn't stop. Neither would the images I'd seen, playing themselves across my vision whether my eyes were open or not.

I have no idea how long I was frozen like a rabbit in a trap. Finally, I realized that I needed to get a hold of myself, lest he return and find me like this. I pulled myself up to standing and tried to get my thoughts straight. I trembled like a leaf; my life could well depend on this discipline.

I ran to the door of my room and locked it, leaning against it for a moment before I started to pull off my clothes. I felt... dirty, violated by his imagination. I had to get clean.

Heating water was too complicated; I poured cold water from the pitcher to the basin and, dipping a cloth, I scrubbed at my body to try and clear and clean my mind.

Finally, I felt... not much better. I gave my stomach one last swipe and started to put the cloth away when I became fixated on a mole there. Just near my navel.

The pictures... there had been no mole. I was sure of it. The drawings kept flicking before my mind's eye (God, would they ever stop?) and... no... there was no mole there in them.

They were not drawn from life, with me as a model; they were a fantasy, a perverted dream with my face stuck onto a body of approximately the same size and shape.

I took a deep breath, and wondered why that made it seem better. Then I decided I didn't care.

As I dressed again in fresh clothes (he could burn the others, I would never wear them again) I acknowledged that men... and he was a man, no Angel, to my horrific disappointment... have... urges. Appetites. Needs. It was common knowledge.

I wondered if Raoul had them, and flushed again as the pictures flashed through my mind with different characters cavorting on them... Raoul and I...

I had to shake myself, then with horror realized that Erik expected me to ride with him tonight in a carriage! In a confined space, so near each other, with no escape! How could I even look at him, now that I had seen...

A disgusting scene played out in my mind... his thin lips, dry, like two dead worms on a pavement, parting for his slug-like tongue to slither out and...

I heaved, and had to steady myself against the wall. No. I could be stronger than this. I could remember that he'd never taken advantage of me here, that I felt safe enough to enter his bedroom when he offered me entrance (although I swore to God I would never do so again!) and that he had never.. spied on me, to make correct his anatomical details of me.

I finished dressing and forced myself to take extra care with my face and hair, then double check my dress. I could not let a single crack in my armor of affection show. I had to maintain my facade. I had almost finished when I heard the door open and close.

Oh God. Holy Mary, give me strength.

He was home.

And I had to leave this room and go to him and smile and take his hand...

The End

Please continue this story by starting  
Chapter IX of Gaston Leroux's "Phantom of the Opera"


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